She will Need Patience
by Trackhawk
Summary: A story of how the rifle Closing Time became Patience and Time "The Best Dam Rifle we have." That's when the gunsmith told me when he handed me this rusted, old hunk of wood and metal. "Bullshit" Is what I responded with, pointing to the shining rifle display behind him.


_She will need Patience_

"The Best Dam Rifle we have."

That's when the gunsmith told me when he handed me this rusted, old hunk of wood and metal.

"Bullshit" Is what I responded with, pointing to the shining rifle display behind him.

Sleek, brightly colored and ergonomically shaped, each one of those displayed rifles provided a stark contrast to the ugly grey and green mess in my hands. The latest models, with the newest technology packed into them, and all unfired, and fresh off the factory assembly line. There was simply no way in hell, that they could be beaten by what looked to be, a taped together, Frankenstein rifle from the 20th century.

Needless to say, I was a tad confused when instead of responding, he had simply handed me six magazines, a bag of ammunition, and pointed to the double doors that led to his shops massive holographic firing range, with a look that all but dared me to refuse his offer.

I remember feeling extremely uneasy and confused by his actions at the time. See ammunition, especially older stuff like he had given me, while not overly expensive, was definitely not cheap enough to simply give away. Plus should I choose not to take the rifle, he would most likely have to fully clean it again, before selling it to someone else, thus losing out on a good chunk of glimmer. Worse still, if I at all damaged the rifle or it got damaged from firing, he would lose out on even more glimmer attempting to fix the dam thing. Though why he would go to so much trouble for a hunk of trash like this one was FAR beyond me.

All in all, it was a very bad business decision, and one that made very little sense to me. Although truth be told, it also made me very curious as to what he was up to, and virtually guaranteed my acceptance of his offer. Though free ammo was free ammo, so it wasn't like I was going to turn it down anyways.

The range itself was empty when I first entered. It was still relatively early in the morning and so not many people were awake yet. I estimated I had about thirty minutes to an hour before anyone else showed up. Plenty of time to shoot off all the rounds gifted to me, and get out before anyone saw me using this Junker of a gun.

The rifle had a large built in bi-pod at the front, and was at the time quite heavy for me, so I took one of the prone position lanes near the far end of the room. Stepping into the booth, holographic targets automatically appeared and littered the lane, some as far as eight hundred meters, others less that fifty. Each one pristine, unmarked and ready for use.

I settled into the stall, setting the rifle up on its pod, before starting to load up the rounds.

The magazines were a pain. Instead of using new age auto loading magazines, it used hand loaded cartridges, meaning I had to tediously push each round in, one by one. Six rounds per mag, for a total of thirty six shots, and it took me well over ten minutes to load them all, and only five minutes to start growing impatient and angry with the process. By the time I had finished, my mind was utterly livid with frustration.

Best rifle they had? HA! I would have sooner believe in the Dead Orbits fucked up religion than believe that statement. Did the gunsmith take me as some kind of idiot? Was that it? Did he honestly think I would just take his word on it? That I would end up buying this sad, taped together excuse of a rifle just from firing it a few times? If so, then he was an utter fool!

I all but slammed one of the magazines home as my mind wandered away from me. Paying little attention as I racket the bolt and chambered a round, not even caring which of the targets down range I put the sights onto. It wasn't as if I would actually hit it with this thing anyways. Hell I would consider it not exploding in my face to be an resounding success.

My mind shut off after the first shot.

My body relaxed after the second.

My breathing deepened and slowed after the third.

My eyes were opened after the fourth.

I pulled the trigger at total of six times, in around four to five seconds. All the rounds were fired and sent through my target in under six second's total.

Six seconds. A rather brief span of time by any stretch of the imagination. Definatly not the amount of time one would normally say it took they, to be both enlightended and proven completely wrong, in. Not that there was really anormal amount of time for either of those things i suppose nor was i really paying attention to the exact amount of time it took.

Honestly I don't really even know how long it was before I my body even moved again. Minutes, seconds, hours? It didn't matter. My mind had yet to catch up with my thoughts, and my body had yet to catch up with my heart.

The next magazine was loaded and fired before I could even think about stopping myself.

Granted I doubt i would have been able to stopped myself anyways at that point, even if i had wanted to.

God, it did not feel like a rifle at that like I was holding a bolt of pure lightning in my hands. Nothing but pure destructive power, and let me tell you...

The feeling of having so much raw un refined power at my disposal, it was exhilaratingly, nerve rackingly, mind numbingly, intoxicatingly beautiful. Right then, holding that rifle, I can honestly say I felt invincible. Like I had transcended everyone else in this tiny world, and become a god. A god who rained down thunder and death on anyone who dared to stand in his way.

The smell of burnt powder and brass filled the air around me, as I continued to fire rounds down range. It mingled in with the smoke that poured from the barrel each time I pulled her trigger, to create an addictive perfume that would leave me craving more and more ammo. That same smell though, would cling to me in the days to come, marking me as this rifles owner and reminding everyone around me of that fact. A silent reminder that I was NOT to use any others.

I think though, the most memorable part was still the sounds. The smooth metallic_clinks_ of the bolt as I racked another round into the chamber, the scraping of softer metals as I replaced the magazine, and the muffled roar that echoed throughout the range each and every time I fired a round. God I can still remember those sounds even to this day. A deadly melody of metal, fire, and thunder. One that would someday inspire hope in my allies, and fear in my enemy's.

All too soon I fired my last shot. All to soon the echoes of that round faded, the smells and feelings reseeded and I was left lying alone once more, feeling about as tired and as spent as the empty cartages that lay beside me.

Still, despite the ache in my shoulder, the trembling of my hands and legs, the cloud of mental tiredness that wrapped itself around my brain, and the heavy weights that I felt tied to my eye lids, I desperately wanted more. Those feelings, the smells, the sounds, they were more addictive than anything I had even experienced before.

I looked down at the rifle before me once more. The once ugly, taped together monstrosity was no longer there. Instead in its place now sat a beautifully intricate, and stunning deadly, piece of finely tuned craftsmanship.

I drank it in. Every detail, every nick, every scratch. The craftsman ship on the weapon was simply impeccable. The dark brown wood stock and pistol grip that I took for granted earlier was shown to have been hand craved, and shaped to fit ones hand and cheek perfectly. The hand dyed, molted grey and green barrel coverings and fabric covered suppressor that must have taken days to perfectly color. The well-oiled and worn internal mechanisms that fit together more precisely than I thought was actually possible. I reexamined everything over and over, wondering how I had missed all this before, how had I ever managed to convince myself it was ugly or that I didn't want it to be mine. It was madness to even consider such a thing now.

Even the once tacky tape and mock foliage on the scope now blended into the rifle seamlessly and only added to its beauty. It was almost laughable how naive I had first been when handling this piece of history, how little I had truly known, and how much I still had to learn.

"She's a beauty isn't she."

Gruff and mono toned, the voice echoed through the range, bringing me back to reality once more. Seems the old exo gunsmith had gotten tired of waiting for my response.

He stood almost right beside me in the shooting booth, looking down at the two of us with what i could almosy call a smile on his face.

Any other day I would have wondered how he managed to sneak up on me so easily, or why he had a large bag of ammunition in his hand, or how he knew what I was thinking, or whether he could actually read minds.

That day however, I simply nodded in response and hoped, no prayed, that he had brought that bag of ammo for me.

"I have several cases of this old crap" he explained holding up the bag. "Don't suppose you would happen to have a use for it?"

I met his eye and patted the polished stock beside me, grinning like a kid in a candy shop. "I think we may be able to find a use for it." I replied.

"You sure she can handle to much more?" he asked pointedly, glancing down at my new companion with a some what smug expression.

One look told me everything. The steam raising from the barrel, the glistening wood and shining metal, she was just getting warmed up.

I let out a low chuckle before reaching up for the bag he held out to me. "It's not her you need to worry about." I told him, "trust me".

* * *

><p>It was later that evening, when I finally dragged my aching body and worn out rifle out of the range and through the door of my home, that I found it.<p>

A small metal plate. on the underside of the stock, with what looked like an engraving on it. Curious as to what it was, I took it to my homes dinner table to examine.

The soft metal was very carefully and deliberately craved, with what I assumed was her previous owners name for her. _Closing Time_

A fitting title for her at the time, I'm sure. One that spoke of not only her power but of her past owner and his time with her. a constant reminder of who she use to belonged to.

Now though, now it didn't work as well.

A new name was needed. One that spoke of her new partner and the new chapter in her story. It was quite fitting I felt. Or maybe it was foolish thinking.

Still though I honestly felt the need to leave my mark on her, just as she had and would continue to leave marks on me. If everyone was going to know I belonged to her, then I wanted everyone to know she also belonged to me.

It didn't take long to figure out a suitable replacement to her previous title. Not when I knew exactly what she would have to have a lot of if she and I were to be partners.

I quickly went and grabbed my old hunting knife from my room, before going to work on the small plate. As delicately as possible, I scratched out the word C_losing_ from the metal plate. Smoothing it over, and heating the plate with an old beautane lighter, to remove any extra markings, before carving her new name into the previously filled space.

_Patience_

Fitting, I thought, as I finished carving the name, smoothing out the lettering and forms.

_Patience and Time_

Fitting. After all both are things she would need a lot of, if she was to be my partner.

* * *

><p>It was weeks later that I ran into him.<p>

I remeber it was quite early in the morning, at least a few hours before the range opened to the public. Patience loves early mornings and insists we get up early at least one a week to do this. Apparently she Loves obliterating the serenity and quite that filled those few hours before the rest of the tower woke up. Why she loves it, I'll never really understand, but a few rounds fire before breakfast always did wonders for waking me up so I never really complained.

It was during a mag loading break that he walked in. James Mcreen. I did not know him back then. Did not know his name or anything. All I knew was that he was old. Or at least, much older than me, with a head of grey hair and thick glasses to boot. His light blue collared shirt, and black dress pants were impeccable, with no wrinkles or even a speck of dirt on them. He looked like a man straight out of the 21st centry really.

The thing that really caught my eye though, was what he carried with him.

In hands he held a relic of a rifle. Full Monty Carlo wood stock, and beefy metal components the rifle looked nothing like any of the rifles I had seen in the past few century's. The only thing that looked even remotely close to this century was the scope, thought even it looked a tad dated and was constructed of metal rather than polymer.

I honestly felt old just looking at it.

He took the stall right next to mine, opting to use the sitting rest and chair, rather than lie prone as I preferred to do. Whether that was due to his age or just a preference, I'll never found out.

Ten rounds were counted out and then loaded into the top of the rifle, one by one, slowly, methodically, as if he had done this a thousand of times before, and yet still enjoyed it. I got a feeling of nostalgia watching him work away, thinking back to the first time I had loaded _Patience's_ magazines and how I had once thought of that slow and calming ritual, as slow, tedious and mundane.

It was then that he started to speak. Mumbles was all I heard at first. His lips moved, but I could barely make out any sound. Every time he finished speaking he would punctuate the sentence with a round fired from his old war horse of a rifle, waiting silently until the echoes died out before speaking again.

I was curious, probably looked the part as well, considering when he looked over at me after all rounds had been fired I swore he chuckled.

"I bet you think I'm crazy." He laughed. His eyes never left mine, but his hands went to work loading more rounds into his rifle. "Though I suppose you may also be wondering what it is I'm doing, yes?"

I gave a short couple of nods to confirm his suspicion.

"I was reciting an old mantra my grandfather taught me" He explained, "It's an old creed that had been passed down from generation to generation in my family. My grandfather taught it to me just as I taught it to my grandchildren and they will teach it to theirs."

He spoke with such conviction I had no choice but to believe him, despite not really understanding what he meant by a creed.

He must have seen right through me, because the next thing I knew, a folded piece of paper landed in my lap.

"Go ahead", he offered turning back to his rifle and prepping to fire once more, though I don't think he did ever end up pulling the trigger.

Ever so carefully I unfolded the worn paper. Taking great care to not rip or tear any part of it as I did so. It was a single white sheet. Black inked hand writing littered the page, broken up by spaces every now and again, to create a series of what looked to be seven individual quotes.

"_This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine."_

"The rifleman's creed." He explained, as I read slowly through the first line of handwritten text. "A simple seven verse doctrine that has been engrained, into both history and the mind of every single rifleman or woman since its creation in the early 1940's."

"_My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life."_

"It has been handed down from generation to generation since it was first written, each new military recruit being forced into learning and memorizing it as thoroughly as the rifle which it so eloquently speaks of." he continued to explain.

"_My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless."_

"A mantra of the discipline and dedication needed to become one of the best. An axiom of the patience and time that is required to be successful. A song of war and of the death one trains night and day to reek on the battlefield."

"_My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit..."_

"Men make the rifles, and the rifles make the men. The rifle is taught to respect, and the man is taught to trust. Neither is complete without the other, just as a man wont function without eyes, a rifle wont function without a trigger."

"_My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother."_

He pointed down to Patience with complete authority as he spoke. "Both of you will change. Driven by a need to connect and fit together, you will change to suit the others needs the same way you would with your own family, your own kin."

"_Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life."_

"Then a day will come when one of you dies. When the mantra and lessons learned must be passed down to another. When one of you must carry on the journey alone. Do not hesitate when this time arrives. For out of the ashes of that sacrifice will arise hope. Stronger and brighter than ever."

"_So be it, until victory is__HUMANITIES, and there is no enemy, but peace!"_

"Remember this, live by it, and be thankful. For every rifle you see or own, there is a story behind it. There is a tale to be heard and learned from. A brother who taught that rifle you hold now, everything it knows, and helped shape it, into who it is today." He was barely whispering by the end of his speech.

He stared down at _Patience_ as he spoke. Taking in every single change and modification that she held, like badges of honor and victory, almost smiling as his eyes raked over her form. I knew what he was thinking as he gazed. How many century's has she lived? What has she seen? What has she done? Who was her previous owner, what drove them to add the modifications they did? The list of questions only grew longer the more we thought. A never ending sea of curiosities and wonder.

In the end though, I think we both knew that even if we answered every single one of the questions we had, even if we knew the entire history behind the creation of her, even if we had a documented list of the previous owners, we would never really know truly know her.

After all, one could really only begin to imagine the story's behind a weapon like her.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey Trackhawk here. So recently a buddy of mine asked me if it would be possible for me to do a story like this for other weapons in the game. I thought it would be a fun little side project to do, so here is my offer.<strong>

**So for anyone who is interested, PM me a weapon you want a story for and I will write and publish it for you as a chapter. First submission is guarantied a story. Weapons must be from Destiny though so keep that in mind.**

**Good luck guardians and hear from you soon.**


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